


That Foster-Brother of Remorse and Pain

by TheWaffleBat



Series: Loved in Secret [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Headcanons that Witchers are just weird monsters, I say rough, It's pretty tame, M/M, Protective Siblings, Rough Sex, Sex, ekimmara, katakans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 05:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18462647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaffleBat/pseuds/TheWaffleBat
Summary: He shook the thoughts away, Eskel’s gaze a heavy weight, not concern and not threat but idle regard, cold and impassive. Not a man to cross, so Regis gave him a smile. “Well, well,” He said, “Vampires in a witcher stronghold - the masters of old must be spinning in their graves.”Eskel barked a laugh, his heart giving another leap of surprise in his chest. “Probably wishing Vesemir’d had the sense to give Geralt up to some farmer’s wife in the valley,” He said, shook his head with a low chuckle. “Or they might be wishing he’d died in the Trial of the Grasses after all, like they thought he was going to.”Regis and Dettlaff and his pack have arrived safe at Kaer Morhen. Seeing as Geralt likes Regis, Eskel would like to make one or two things clear to him.





	That Foster-Brother of Remorse and Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Oscar Wilde's _The Burden of Itys._
> 
>  **Quick note** : I headcanon witchers, and Geralt in particular, being a bit weirder than in canon, up to and including werewolf teeth. If that's not your thing, fling yourself at the back button and leave now.

It was not so difficult to find Kaer Morhen as Regis expected. Perhaps it was only because he and Dettlaff were vampires - drifting upwards as a billowing cloud of mist and fog to get a feel for the land the way ordinary people and monsters couldn’t - but they found the path easily enough and guided their pack to it; walked most of the way because their lesser brothers couldn’t see so well, and it was easier to follow when he and Dettlaff were human.

Down the wide, empty valley smothered by snow thick on the ground and across the beginning of the Gwenlech rushing white and angry across its bed, to the small pass in the cliffs; a gorge carved out by the river across more millenia than Regis had seen or would ever see. Geralt had said that once they reached it the mountain keep would be close by and towards the ravine, close to its mouth where it opened out into the forests around the castle, was the road. No more a dirt path, really, but welcome even so; Katakans and Ekimmara were sturdy and hardy, but they were not built for such a long journey, trudging through Velen swamps and old warzones long picked clean by scavengers of every breed. The snowy road would do their weary feet well.

Another drift upwards, mist and shadow with no eyes to see but seeing, anyway, because he wasn’t so limited by their loss as others would be, and he caught sight of the castle. He came back down and reformed, taking his mule’s reins from Dettlaff with a pat of his hand in thanks. “Not long now,” Regis said, “Once we cross the river there-” He pointed it out for a pup balanced quite precariously on his mother’s shoulder, “-it will only be the climb up the hill and we have arrived!”

“Mm,” Said Dettlaff, glancing about himself nervously because while he was quite like Geralt in a great many things, he had never grown a taste for travel; liked to have a place to stay and then staying there, playing with the pups and taking over when Tep was hungry or needed a rest. He shuffled a little, fiddling with a button on his chest. “Are you sure they would welcome us? The witchers?”

Regis pressed his mouth thin, but didn’t say any of the words pressing against the backs of his teeth about how it was a little rich of Dettlaff to distrust Geralt’s word, delivered through _Regis_ too, after so spectacularly betraying _Geralt’s_ trust in Regis’ word that Dettlaff was harmless. That was just cruel, however true, and it was a reasonable enough worry concerning the two witchers neither of them had ever met.

“Geralt wouldn’t invite us,” Regis told him, “If he was not willing to welcome you, and as Geralt told it his brothers Lambert and Eskel will follow him. So long as the pack behaves themselves there’ll be no trouble, I’m sure of it. At the very least,” He added, adjusting one of the packs on his mule’s back, “Trust me to manage any conflict that should arise. I wouldn’t let them hurt you any more than I will let you hurt them.”

Dettlaff looked away, nodded. Scooped up a katakan pup and settled her under the folds of his coat where she clutched his shirt the way she did to her mother’s fluff, wrapped up against the cold. He nodded again while the pup chirped excitedly about all the sounds and smells of mountains she’d never been to and old grandmother Tep had never told her stories about.

“Not long now!” Said Regis again, starting for Kaer Morhen pale and small in the distance.

Eventually they came to the river shallow at the base of the hill, Kaer Morhen towering high above on the mountain slope. Regis guided his mule through the icy water, picketed him on the other side so he wouldn’t wander off as Regis took two pups, and Dettlaff the other three, across the river too. They could have left the pups with their parents, true, but while they listened to he and Dettlaff - though Regis was certain that his authority came more from Dettlaff than anything else - they did not listen to their mothers or fathers, and none of them wanted to take the chance they’d be foolish and run through the water just to escape being picked up. Icy water never treated baby katakans and ekimmara well.

They forded the river easily enough, the winter ice making making it shallower than it might otherwise be in warmer times; parents scooping up their babies from Regis and Dettlaff’s arms and the others drawing close, hissing at the wolves and bears keeping wary distance, growling low in their throats but unwilling to be more threatening than that having never met predators stronger than the lone draconid circling overhead. Onwards, climbing the hill and trudging through the snow, the pack falling silent as Kaer Morhen’s shadow fell across them; the chill of the mountains’ cold all the sharper when they stood below the den of wolves that hunted their brothers and sisters that lost themselves to the endless sweetness of mortal blood.

The portcullis rattled open for them, huge and tall. Regis held his palm out _stay_ and ducked into the entranceway, saw one of the wolf witchers leaning against the wall; languid, though his heart leapt at the sight of Regis. Not fear - there was no smell of it, and perhaps it was unfair to compare all witchers to the one but Geralt had never been afraid of him either, not truly. Surprise, either that Regis had showed at all or that he looked like any other gentle old man.

Regis bowed to the witcher, because it was only polite to greet him as the master he was when Regis was coming into his home. Invited, true, but there was a tightness to his face that said he wasn’t happy about it. The witcher nodded back, said nothing, so Regis took the moment to look at him; broad and strong, the scars slashed ugly across his face, twisting his lip, a landmark Geralt had told him about, months ago in Mère-Lachaiselongue’s crypts as Regis packed the last of his things.

“Eskel?” Asked Regis. The witcher nodded again. “Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. Geralt’s vampire.”

“The one he’s been fucking, I know,” Said Eskel. He tilted his head, looked Regis up and down. “Gotta say, kinda disappointed. Geralt said to look out for an old man, but he didn’t say...” He gestured at Regis. “No offense, but I expected different. Someone weird-lookin’ - you know the stories.” He grinned, showed his own wolf’s teeth, dulled and small, as he shrugged. “But what do I know? Come on, he’s been pissing Lambert off waiting for you and if I have to keep listening to them bitching at each other one more minute I’m throwing Lambert off the fucking roof. Rest of ‘em inside too,” He added, nodding at the pack milling uncertainly outside the gates. “Can’t say I’m all that happy about it, but as long as they behave they can stay.”

Regis bowed to him again, called up Dettlaff and the pack and followed Eskel. The wolf stared a little at the katakans and ekkimmara and the lone nekurat Dettlaff had befriended, huge and hulking and towering, but didn’t reach for the sword on his back, silvery and lethal and stinking of the venomous oil Geralt had used against Dettlaff.

The stableyard and the courtyard just beyond all showed the decay of decades of disrepair, a few huts along the walls where stablehands must have once lived little more than old ruins, scattered as pebbles in the grass and weeds overgrown where feet didn’t walk. It would not take long before Kaer Morhen was gone for good, the witchers with it. Regis wondered how the world would fair without them - either of them, because there was a strange beauty in both. Even Eskel, with his ugly scars carved deep in his face likes the scars on the castle’s walls, was a masterpiece all his own, a bulwark against the mindless drowners and nekkers and ghouls and even the lesser vampires, the brothers without the mind to ever understand that humans weren’t food, just as the walls stood as a bulwark against the howling winds just starting to come down from mountain slopes.

He shook the thoughts away, Eskel’s gaze a heavy weight, not concern and not threat but idle regard, cold and impassive. Not a man to cross, so Regis gave him a smile. “Well, well,” He said, “Vampires in a witcher stronghold - the masters of old must be spinning in their graves.”

Eskel barked a laugh, his heart giving another leap of surprise in his chest. “Probably wishing Vesemir’d had the sense to give Geralt up to some farmer’s wife in the valley,” He said, shook his head with a low chuckle. “Or they might be wishing he’d died in the Trial of the Grasses after all, like they thought he was going to. Right,” He said, stopping in the middle of the courtyard and leaning his hip against the crumbling wall of an old well. “Keep’s up ahead, obviously, stables down there. Touch the horses - any of ‘em - and you’re dead, no excuses. You want out, go, but you stay inside the valley. Got it?”

 _“Yes,”_ Rattled grandmother Tep, Common uncomfortable from her mouth.

The witcher nodded, because of course he’d be used to katakans talking to him; they were not so uncommon that he wouldn’t have had a contract on them. Regis fell into step with Dettlaff and followed Eskel through the large wooden doors. Their pack murmured uneasily, but Dettlaff's command held and they followed. Dettlaff glanced at him, once - brows drawn tight and jaw shifting the way it did when his teeth came in, long and lethal. Regis took a hold of his wrist, smoothed his thumb over the thin skin there, and Dettlaff's jaw loosened, teeth shrinking. There was no danger with the witchers, not with Geralt and Regis here; Regis was sure of it.

The keep was in much the same state of repair was the grounds, but at the very least considerably warmer. Pillars crumbling, plaster fallen from the ceiling, murals on the walls faded and peeling, but made warm by the large hearth on the over side of the hall, the smell of witcher and smoke heavy on the still air; blood and fur and clean-air smell, one witcher sat with his legs propped up on a table, and the other pacing a little further away as they drew close, the pack crowding at Dettlaff's back.

“See Geralt?” Said the one witcher, dark haired and sharp, leaning back in his seat with a smug smile. “Didn’t need to worry after all, did you old man? ‘Bout time you showed up,” He added, turning yellow eyes on Regis. “Pretty Boy’s been pacing a hole in the floor for weeks now, and this ruin doesn’t need any more of those.”

Geralt growled at him. “Leave him be Lambert,” Said Eskel, shoving his way between them and scooping up a bottle from the table, sniffing its uncorked mouth and taking a long drink of whatever was inside. “You’re just pickin’ on him because you’re sore Keira’s not here yet.”

“It’s fuckin’ _cold_ , Eskel,” Whined Lambert, snatching the bottle. “And Geralt had it right all along sleeping with sorceresses - can you believe it! But I mean, I got Keira to _enchant my socks_ because I was complaining about swamp water in my boots. Just, boom, she waves her fingers and now they're waterproof. It’s fuckin’ _brilliant_ , I’m telling you.” Turned to Regis again, shooed him. “Go on, go say hi to Pretty Boy so we don’t have to listen to him pining for you. Just keep it quiet, yeah? I wanna sleep tonight.”

Regis glanced at Geralt, lit by the roaring hearth; smiling ever so gently for Regis, the lines just starting to come in his face eased a little. But Regis turned from Geralt a moment; something in the bared strip of skin at Geralt’s chest, outlines of his muscle betrayed by the loose folds, said that greeting him properly would come soon enough. “So quick to be rid of me? Such a poor welcome, master Lambert,” Regis said. “Here I was hoping I might finally get the chance to speak to yet more witchers who weren’t out for my blood.” He gestured to Dettlaff at his side, head low against the weight of so many wolf’s eyes on him, sharp and keen and Geralt’s sparking in dull anger. “At the very least allow me to introduce my dear friend Dettlaff van der Eretein, and our pack.”

Dettlaff inclined his head, shoulders stiff beneath his coat even when none of the witchers, Eskel pulling from his back his swords and propping them against the table beside him, made to attack. Perhaps it was simply their gazes heavy on him, not as deadly as their blades but certainly near to uncomfortable as. “A pleasure to meet you, Eskel and Lambert,” Dettlaff said, turned to Geralt. “And to see you in good health, Geralt. I realise I did not apologise to you, so I am… I am sorry. For what happened in Beauclair. The destruction...”

“Remind me of it and I’ll stab you,” Said Geralt, crossing his arms over his chest. His teeth gleamed in the firelight, long and lethal; a pointed reminder that he didn’t need his swords conspicuously absent at his back to be dangerous. “You’re alive because Regis cares about you, that’s it.” He shook his head, scratched the close-shorn hair on the sides with a low growl, Eskel and Lambert looking between them. “Just... forget about all that, alright? Eskel, show them their tower?”

“On it,” Said Eskel, gathering up his swords again and gesturing sharply for them to follow.

Dettlaff looked to Regis, so he nodded because if nothing else there was nothing a lone witcher could do against three katakans, two ekimmara, a nekurat, and a higher vampire, and there didn’t seem anything truly threatening in Eskel. Perhaps if Geralt had not vouched for either of them he _would_ be, but then they would not be here, would they? Only the witchers and a handful of Geralt’s closest friends and lovers had ever seen Kaer Morhen's walls.

Geralt watched them go, something in him easing as Dettlaff was led away enough that he turned back to Regis with another soft smile; a little awkward on his face, made ugly and strange by the wolf’s teeth sharp and pointed shining in the firelight but all the sweeter for it. He nodded at the ceiling, the smile turning to a smirk, eyes heated and _oh_ , what else was there to do but follow Geralt? Regis was a great many things, but apt to ignore that particular offer he was not.

Lambert saluted them, a nasty, laughing twist to his mouth as they left him to drink alone. “Keep it quiet lovebirds!”

“Like the whole valley couldn’t hear you and Keira go at it last winter,” Scoffed Geralt, equally nasty but soft-eyed, as teasing as the way he knocked into Lambert on his way past hard enough to make him spill his drink down his front, spluttering indignance about the waste of vodka.

Geralt led the way to a door across the hall that, when he shouldered it open, led to a tower whose staircase spiralled up high; a faint smirk handsome on his lips. Regis thought he should probably stop looking at Geralt’s mouth, but then his eyes would stray to his hands, fine-boned and strong, or to his back; broad shouldered and narrow-hipped like a wolf, lean and vicious and far stronger than many would suspect. He didn't need to make a fool of himself by tripping, or something equally as equally banal from those very worst dregs of human erotica.

They passed a few doors, old and worn and their iron fittings just starting to be eaten by rust, through the climb, but Geralt didn’t open any of them, kept climbing and climbing and so Regis followed, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders because here, in this tower well away from the large hearth in the main hall, it was dreadfully chilly. Not quite so cold as outside must be by now, the night chill made early by winter and even earlier by the shadows of the mountains rising high, but that meant little; Regis was cold. He hoped the room Geralt was leading him to at least had a brazier.

“‘S good to see you, Regis,” Said Geralt, not looking at him.

“And you as well, my dear. And before you ask, no, the journey went quite well. Finding the ravine proved no trouble at all, although Velen still seems quite the miserable kind of mire even after Nilfgaard withdrew its forces.” Regis shuddered delicately, more for theatrics than anything else because he knew Geralt would see it, huffing amusement. “No matter; we managed well enough.” He trudged along a few steps. “May I ask you something, dear Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t spare him a glance, but he slowed his steps a little to let Regis catch up a bit more. “Would it stop you if I said no?”

“No,” Regis allowed, smiling. “But common courtesy demands that I ask, and my regard for you is too high to neglect that duty. Why is it you seem different to your brothers?”

At long last they came to a door, simple and plain, and Geralt opened it for Regis, silent. The room was smaller than Regis had expected, but _warm_ ; covered in furs and blankets and old clothes, threadbare and soft. Swords and trophies from old hunts hung up on the wall, a brazier burning bright and merry with the large bed nearby to catch its heat, heavy doors closed against what Regis suspected was a balcony to keep out the cold. Regis looked to Geralt, got a nod, and so he wandered around the little room, touching the trophies and taxidermy; lingered a little at a drowner head, falling apart and really quite terribly made. A first hunt, Regis supposed, and a young boy proud enough of his kill to try to commemorate it. Witcher smell was heavy in the air, ground into everything as it did their armour - the scent lingering long after it had been changed or washed. Geralt’s smell was heaviest of all, steel and blood and the delight of a good fight; his room. Well, Regis thought with a smile, what else had he expected?

“Bit messy, sorry,” Said Geralt, no actual contrition in his voice because it was his space, would always be his space, no matter that Geralt had invited Regis inside, and why should he care for messiness?

Regis turned away from it, took a seat on the bed. “And you’re evading the question, my dear,” He said, watched Geralt’s jaw clench. “If you’d rather not answer, you must simply say so. I won’t press.”

“It’s not that,” Geralt told him, crossing his arms with a stubborn little furrow between his brows. He breathed out, slow and harsh. “I don’t know, alright? It’s just...” Geralt glanced at Regis, grimacing. Looked away just as quickly and shrugged, shifting a little where he stood. “I don’t know. Mutations affect each of us differently. Some of us stop feeling, most of us don’t. Some are better at magic, some not so much. Me?” He shrugged again. “Was always an odd case, apparently. Second trial just added to that.” He shook his head, a growl deep in his chest. “Look, didn’t invite you here to talk about me; come on - bed.”

“So forward, dear Geralt,” Said Regis, allowing him the deflection; either Geralt truly didn’t know, or he wasn’t comfortable sharing it just yet. He stroked his hand through Geralt’s hair when he stalked forward and bent low for a kiss, accepting the one and yanking him back when Geralt went for a second; delighting in his slitted pupils going wide, round and and wanting, sudden desire rising hot from his skin. “Not even a glass of wine or some titillating conversation first? I’d be hurt if I didn’t already know you were not a man inclined towards the romantic.”

He didn’t stop Geralt from sitting above him, though, balanced on his knees to tower up as they had done in Mère-Lachaiselongue so many months ago; didn’t stop _himself_ from pulling Geralt down for a kiss, keeping a tight grip in his hair already falling loose from its tie, feeling out the give in his strong thighs bracketing Regis’ hips.

“Oh I’ve missed you, my dear,” Regis sighed, nipping Geralt’s chin just to make him flinch back enough to make the space to speak. “I’d almost forgotten quite how handsome you really are.”

“Not looking so bad yourself,” Said Geralt, voice rumbling from deep in his throat like a growl, but gentler; biting Regis’ throat where he’d tucked his face, breathing slow and steady and deep; dragged the point of his nose over Regis’ cheek just to mouth his jaw, wolf’s teeth scraping so carefully over the skin. “Looking a little less ill. It’s nice.” A kiss, hot and deep as Geralt settled his weight down, hand clenching and unclenching against Regis’ chest like he wanted to bury his hands under the tunic and _feel_ but not willing to push; sex made gentle by the care that so few mortal men saw, weren’t _willing_ to see because they would never expect a witcher to be gentle, pulling against the grip on his hair and breath stuttering at the stinging pain because he liked it, but cupping Regis’ face in his hand so carefully.

Regis leaned back on his elbows to watch as Geralt pulled his shirt over his head and flung it to a corner, the flex of it exaggerated just to make Regis laugh at him because Geralt wasn’t made to be erotic in that way, the long lines of him harsh as the mountain slopes not meant for a succubus’ nubile twisting - Geralt was not, after all, a beautiful man, or at least not a man who was _that_ kind of beautiful.

He was like his blades; beautiful but not pretty, and as strange as the steel that made it - meteorite and dimeritium patterned across it, forge welded just as Geralt had been forge welded. A monster and a man blended perfectly together into the thing that kissed Regis so sweetly, hands kneading and petting and all of him perfectly happy with an unremarkable old man for a lover. Desire more instinctive than Regis suspected Geralt liked to admit, same as Regis' desire for Geralt when he pressed his face to the join of Geralt's neck to his broad shoulders and breathed in the smell of him, rising hot from his skin when Regis traced the strong shape of his thigh.

But that didn’t matter so much as the teeth he showed in his smile as Regis pulled his own clothes over his head and set them aside, leaning into Geralt’s rough palm gentle against his ribs because the hypersensitivity had finally receded there; lethal werewolf's teeth softened by his ugly grin that Geralt was helpless to make, too delighted to hide them as he usually did. His eyes were blown wide, the remarkable yellow-gold of them made a thin ring by desire black and hungry; closing as Regis fit his hand to the placket of Geralt's trousers and found him armoured even there, so shoving his hand inside instead.

“Damn I’ve missed this,” Said Geralt, biting at the join between Regis’ neck and shoulder; harder in his surprise when Regis dragged his gloved palm up the underside of his cock, and kept doing it as he rocked into the touch.

“And yet I’m being bitten for satisfying you.”

Geralt huffed at him, falling to the side to stretch out across the plush-heavy furs of his bed, flexing again and Regis knew it was meant to be teasing, but he still enjoyed watching enough that he forgave Geralt his amusement and settled above him, kissing the blade-sharp jut of his clavicle, the tendons tight at his throat. “Could always do it to me, too. Might not even push you off for it.”

“Why do I think,” Said Regis, pawing through Geralt’s bedside drawers and finding a small vial of oil, clear inside its wide-bottomed little flask, “That it would be considerably more an incentive than a punishment? But come, we’ve rather more important things to discuss than your fetishes; how would you like our evening to go, dear Geralt?”

Geralt hummed to himself while he pulled off his trousers and flung them away, and in place of answering turned instead to pulling needily at Regis' own trousers, shoving them down to get a hand to his cock and really, what else was there to do but to settle above him and rock into the gentle grip, calluses rough and delicious and pleasure sparking? Geralt's grip was sure and deft Regis loved him for that alone, almost as much as he loved Geralt taking the oil from his hand and pulling the cork out with his teeth, wetting Regis' hand for him, though he did not love Geralt taking his hands  _away._

"Just, like this?" Geralt said, and folded himself up so his legs were wrapped around Regis' waist, arched up into the touch, into Regis' fingers getting him ready, and Geralt was forgiven, pleasure sparking dull and hot in Regis' gut, absolutely _wonderful-_ "I like it more, I-"

Regis didn't care to know why Geralt liked it - it was a discussion to have another time, when they were more secure together, more knowledgeable about each other and what was and was not allowed, and wasn't terribly necessary besides - so went willingly into the kiss, even more willingly into the vicious grip of his body. Settled inside and took a few moments to get a hold of himself, he was no _fledgling-_

"Rough?" Asked Geralt, arching up again, taking deeper, deeper still and trying for more when Regis _had_ no more to give him and suddenly very much hating that fact. "I want- but if you don't-"

"Hush," Said Regis, needing to.. _gods_ , he just- he shoved his hips close, and breathed harsh and quick because he needed the press of air tight in his chest, traced his claws up Geralt's cock just to make him shiver and leak a little bead of slick because Regis wanted him just as hard and hungry for it. "I will, dear Geralt, I will, just-"

Yes, alright, Regis was alright - he wasn't going to come immediately like an idiot teenager with the first woman he'd taken to bed, though like that poor girl Regis had long forgotten the name of Geralt would at least be mollified by a bit of petting and sucking and Regis apologising. So he ducked his head low between his shoulders, braced himself against the bed, and got to work; quick and rough and hard as Geralt asked for, Geralt's hand clamped on Regis' hair and then giving up and joining its twin on the headboard, holding fast as Regis hauled him up and bent him and twisted him, using all the vampire's strength still left to him and hating that he wasn't quite strong enough to throw Geralt up against a wall the way his low, moaning growl said he'd like.

Regis kept a tight grip around Geralt's shoulder, dug his claws in a little and harder still when Geralt groaned throatily, pain reflected back by the tight grip of his jaws around Regis' throat, clamping down because there was no danger, was there? Regis was the only one who couldn't be hurt by all the monster Geralt was made of, couldn't be frightened by the wolf's teeth drawing blood and his grip making the headboard creak, growl rumbling out from deep in his chest, through Regis and _his_ chest like a Fiend's roar. Just as Geralt couldn't be frightened by Regis' vampire's teeth digging into his own lip as he hefted Geralt highed and fucked him harder, chasing the bladed edge of a snarl in Geralt's voice. A good match, a brilliant match - pain and pleasure, and monster and man all bundled up together in ways that shouldn't work but _did_ and fitting together just as Regis fit in the circle of Geralt's legs clamped around his hips, keeping him close as he fucked quicker, set his shoulders against the strain and _ached_ with the need but wanting Geralt to come first, to watch him this time.

Damn Vilgefortz! Regis hadn't the strength anymore to hold Geralt up one-armed and work his cock for him! Never had he hated a man more than he did now, and he laughed because what a ridiculous time to be angry at someone, balls deep in a lover and grinding deeper to make Geralt whine high and thin. "Geralt, you'll have to..." _Oh_ , Regis hadn't the will to tease, not against Geralt's eyes glowing in the dark, bright and wanting and hungry and loving and _wonderful_ \- he started up the rhythm again. "Yourself, Geralt, you'll have to."

Geralt did, and he was just as perfect when he came over his knuckles as he did over Regis' in Mère-Lachaiselongue’s crypts, fucking up into his fist and even better because all of him clenched tight, making Regis follow in his wake and yes, _yes,_ good; pleasure burst bright and brilliant and Regis let himself be carried along by it, chased the last few pulses of it hot in his gut, then the threads of it that had drawn tight loosening and letting him fall against Geralt's chest, listening to his extraordinary heart race beneath his ear. He shivered happily in Geralt's arms, turned his head into the pleasure-clumsy hand petting his hair, and stretched.

There was probably a rule somewhere that said Regis was being terribly rude, making Geralt go get a rag to throw at Regis' belly for him to clean up his own mess, but that mattered very little when Geralt, finished cleaning himself in that charming fastidiousness of his, settled back in bed and curled up warm and sold around Regis, nuzzling into the back of his head and asleep in moments.

-:-

Regis buried his face in the furs of Geralt’s bed, breathed in the smell of it that was very quickly becoming less Geralt’s smell, and more _their_ smell; lovers and pack and _together_ making the bed, the tower room, a nest.

No pups to fill it with, of course - neither of them were the kind of men to settle down at their age. Ciri was Geralt’s daughter, that was never in question, but something told Regis that Geralt didn’t want another, that one little girl he could call his own, for all that she was in Nilfgaard under her birth father’s wing, was enough for him. It was still a nest, still  _theirs_ and only ever _theirs_ ; no sneaky dark-haired katakans or white-fluffed ekimmara pups to come sneaking in and curling up on Geralt’s warm back, not after the scolding they’d gotten the one time they’d tried.

He stretched, loving the softness of Geralt’s bed; looked to Geralt drowsy and languid beside him, eyes ever-lambent even with the brazier burned low and morning light pale and weak in his room besides, and loved him, too, for dozing next to him, only grunting when Regis kissed his throat. No fear of the vampire’s teeth inches away from his skin, the blood hot underneath - they both knew that Regis could never harm him, just as Regis didn’t fear Geralt’s werewolf’s teeth, or the many silver blades hung up on the walls, or his current one resting against the bedpost. They were beyond that, and had been long before they’d gone to bed in a Toussaint crypt.

Geralt, either not seeing the affection and care for him keeping rhythm in Regis’ chest, or simply not caring, rolled over with one of his hideous grins and crushed Regis beneath him, nosing the back of his head. “Morning,” Said Geralt happily, pressing kisses to Regis’ skull.

“You ought to be grateful vampires are more sturdy than we appear,” Said Regis, “Good lord, Geralt; whenever did you get so _heavy_ \- you are entirely skin and bones, you are not _meant_ to be so heavy!”

Geralt continued to kiss Regis’ head, and Regis could almost _hear_ the smugness curling his lips as he shifted his weight to crush Regis beneath him even more. “And you’re all elbows and knees, but you don’t hear me complaining,” He said, nuzzled back into Regis’ hair, and getting impossibly heavier with a satisfied sigh, the arms he wrapped around Regis still warm from the sleep pulling at Geralt’s rumbling voice. “Love you.”

“So you say when you’re _crushing me_ , my dear,” Said Regis, as loftily as he could while squashed beneath a mass of witcher. Even so, it was no difficulty to push Geralt off back to his side of the bed and sit up, ready to head downstairs, to preempt any other blatant attempt for morning cuddles. He shook his head at Geralt’s sleepy-eyed pouting, but let himself soften enough to press a kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Unfortunately for you, Kaer Morhen continues to have quite the alchemical library and, besides, I’m hungry for more than just morning sex and indulging your laziness. Not all of us are used to spending winter quite the way witchers do.”

Dettlaff least of all; only a month and he’d already finished repairing some of the much-needed supports, with only Eskel to teach him how and his pack to haul supplies.

Regis shook his head fondly, and stroked Geralt’s hair. “Go back to sleep, my love,” He said, and of course Geralt _did_ ; he liked to have Regis beside him, but he still fell asleep at the drop of a hat with or without Regis to lower him carefully to the floor or bench or table, pressed against his side in case any of his frequent nightmares came to his dreams. Such a strange man, Regis thought, pulling on his clothes and his boots, and Regis was extraordinarily lucky to know him, to be allowed in his home, the circle of his arms, given kisses hot on his lips, bites painful on his throat and shoulders before they healed.

All of the witchers were rather lazy, Regis mused fondly, besides their few joys. Sparring and hunting took them outside, for the most part, but when confined inside did little other than sleep, read, eat, and hound one of the others into making the food _to_ eat. Regis supposed it was because they had little other opportunity during the year - the life of a witcher was hard enough work without making themselves even more deliberately ill and unhappy by overlooking this one rest.

Eskel, however, despite the early hour was not only awake when Regis carefully closed the door to Geralt’s tower, but fully geared up; swords on his back and red jacket, newly patched and repaired, over his mail and leather underarmour. He looked up from his half-eaten breakfast, nodded at Regis. Lambert was nowhere nearby. “It’s a nice day out,” Said Eskel, nodding to the closed main doors. “Figure Scorpion could do with stretchin’ his legs a bit. Join me,” He said, in a way that wasn’t a request and wasn’t an order either. A certainty. “Should probably get to know you better, since Geralt’s got attached to you, and I guess your mule could do with a walk too, yeah?”

He had nothing to really say to that, so Regis nodded and Eskel, either not wanting or not needing a true answer, left. Regis followed him.

They stayed quiet all through the long trek in weak winter sunlight out to the stables, down Kaer Morhen’s road and turning to a faint, overgrown path leading up a steep hillside. Draakul the Second snorted at the thick snow piled up all around, but he had no grounds to be stubborn because Eskel and Scorpion were leading the way, Scorpion pushing his way through to clear the path for Draakul. Occasionally Eskel told him to be wary of a steep drop to his side that might make Draakul slide down the hill, but otherwise didn’t speak as they crested the hill and found a ruin older and more ruined than Kaer Morhen far behind them.

“Look,” Said Eskel, guiding his horse to a stop and gesturing to the ruin cold and crumbling in front of them. “Geralt and I and the other boys used to train here. Old man Auric was _brutal_ , let me tell you.”

He dismounted and picketed Scorpion in a patch of dirt mostly clean of snow, so Regis did the same with his mule nearby and followed Eskel into the ruin, studying the burned buildings whose timbers still stood, not yet rotted away, and the towers crumbling, soon to fall. There was a thrum against his feet, uneasiness in the ground from the dead whose bones gleamed white from the dirt stained black by ashes - cleared of snow by restless anger still simmering resentfully even after all these years - but no wraith appeared and, since Eskel didn’t unsheathe his silver blade, probably weren’t likely to.

The ruins looked… quite sad, really. Perhaps it was only the snow, thick on the ground where the dead didn't lie, but… Regis sighed; just another sign that witchers were soon to die out, he supposed; their brilliance - subtle and strange, yes, but no less extraordinary - soon extinguished. He shook those thoughts away; they weren’t his to think with Eskel having brought him here for more than just a companionable ride to enjoy the rare winter sun.

Eskel trudged to a section of fallen tower that stood well above the snow, cleared its top with a small blast of fire and sat on its warmed stone. Regis took shelter against the biting wind behind the wall, still in Eskel’s view but not quite so willing to brave the cold against his hands as the wolf was.

Eskel smiled thinly, turned his gaze to the small yard; pointed to the largest burned-down ruin. “Used to be a smith’s forge, you know. Made all our starting and training swords there. You wouldn’t know it now but Geralt used to be such a little shit, got caught all the time doin’ stuff he shouldn’t - stuck there all the time sharpening the blades. And up there,” He pointed to the yard above the ruined forge, “Was where we used to train. Made friends with him when I was, what, six? Seven? Smacked him around a bit during some drills.”

Regis wondered what little Geralt had looked like then, small and young and cocky. Shook those thoughts away. “You didn’t bring me here just to reminisce, or to tell me about yours and Geralt’s youthful days, master Eskel.”

The witcher nodded. “I didn’t,” He agreed, crossed his arms and kept his gaze steady on Regis. “Don’t know what Geralt’s told you so I’m assuming you know jack, alright? Geralt’s a weird fuckin’ guy, and I’m not talking about his kinks. Hard to miss the hair and the teeth and the noises he makes, ain’t it?” Eskel sighed, then; clasped his hands and looked to them between his knees for long moments. Shook his head. “None of the masters,” He said, “Expected Geralt to survive the Trials of the Grasses.”

“Oh? I’d been told he resisted them masterfully, which was why he was taken for a second round.”

Eskel grimaced, looked away a moment. Nodded. “Yeah,” He said quietly, looked back and cleared his throat. “But he was… Fuck it - Geralt was born with a weak heart. Hole in it or something. Shitty lungs, too - couldn’t train for more than an hour before he had to stop or pass out, and believe me when I say that it’s only because he was so stubborn he even got that much.”

Regis allowed himself a smile as he looked to the sky, watched a bird taking wing nearby and hurriedly flying away to a safer roost; he was certainly familiar enough with _that_.

“They expected him to die,” Eskel continued, showing his blunted wolf’s teeth in a snarl for those awful memories shadowed in his eyes. “He _did_ die for a few minutes; his heart stopped, just like that.” Eskel crossed his arms again, rolling his shoulders. Swallowed. “Heard him go quiet - we all did. Screaming took his voice after that first day, an’ even with my new hearing I couldn’t hear him after. One of the assistants came out and talked to someone on the Council, don’t know what about but it didn’t seem good. But he came back, got through it better than others; best anyone ever had, apparently. Dagobert took a _real_ interest in him then - I didn’t even get _half a day_ to sit with him in the infirmary before they took him away for another Trial, and...”

He snarled, whirled to his feet and paced, sharp and short and growling at the snow piled all around. “Three days they had him in there!” He snapped, rough as a wolf’s bark. “And he wasn’t- he wasn’t _himself_ when he came out.” Eskel hit a wall, turned on his heel and stalked to a different one, back and forth, back and forth. “Whatever they used to mutate him they made him stronger and faster’n all of us, but they fucked up his head too.”

Regis watched him for a few moments, but Eskel said nothing more; his growl high in his throat, not quite the deep, rumbling note Geralt could hit that came from deep in his chest. “Geralt seems perfectly fine to me,” Regis said. “He is entirely sane, as far as I’m able to discern. Perhaps a little unable to show his feelings, certainly, but that seems quite the theme with you witchers - all of you are rather low on emotional expression.”

Eskel growled again, louder; turned his snarl on Regis. “You didn’t see him when they wheeled him out of that room,” He said, and Regis inclined his head because that was very true. “I’m a simple witcher, Regis; I hunt drowners and I get spat on where I walk. I know shit all about most things. But I know Geralt, always have - the guy you know today isn’t what that alchemist Dagobert experimented on. Who he _should_ be.”

“I’m afraid you must be clearer - I’m not entirely certain what you mean.”

“You want clearer?” Said Eskel, barking an ugly, unhappy laugh. “After that second Trial Geralt didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. Don’t know if he forgot or what, but he didn’t. Oh sure, he’d smile and find things hilarious, but he just didn’t laugh. Took _years_ to do it again, an’ Ciri’s still the only one that can really make him. Can’t cry, either, know that? Got wet-eyed when Vesemir died, spent two days doing nothing but killing Forktails and whatever bear or wolf was hungry enough to try him, but couldn’t shed a single fucking tear for the guy that raised him near enough from birth.”

A wolf drifted into sight, silent on the snow, and watched them. Eskel stared back at it and, sure enough, the wolf was clever enough to move on. Eskel sighed, sent another blast of _igni_ at the broken chunk of tower to warm it and sat again, head heavy between his shoulders. “He can’t really show his feelings, but you and I both know he has them. He’s not like those witchers who get their emotions burned out them. He cares too damn easily for someone old enough to know he shouldn’t, knows _himself_ he shouldn’t.”

Regis nodded when Eskel glanced at him, face unreadable. He knew Geralt wasn’t one of those witchers, cold and distant. It was one of the many things that endeared him to Geralt, that had made him instantly like and then want him. Made him trust, and that trust was rewarded because Geralt’s heart was too big not to come to care for Regis, even if it had been bruised by Regis lying about something so fundamental as his own species.

“Geralt’s a good guy, when it comes down to it,” Eskel said, watching Regis closely; smiling faintly for his brother wolf, and the memories he carried dear. “All the masters hated him before the Trials, you know. He ran riot, a real pain in the ass. An’ then I came along and made it ten times worse. But, then he turned into the Geralt you know,” He sighed, crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the snow between his feet. “Witchers are closer to monsters than most people think, but Geralt’s even closer than that. There’s not a lot that can make him…” Eskel shook his head, stared at his hands a moment. “I know what he’s like when he’s hurt by someone he cares about, what happens to him. What he’d _do_ for someone he cares about - easy enough to guess just by Ciri.” He rubbed his mouth, over the scars carved deep.

“He’s gonna love you soon,” Said Eskel, back to watching Regis but what he was watching _for_ Regis couldn’t guess. “If he doesn’t already. Gods know if he knows either way - he can read people like a damn book sometimes, but when it comes to himself it might as well be Ofieri.” Eskel stood once more, drawn up to his full, tall height, arms still crossed to look properly intimidating; looming. “I don’t know how this all works for vampires, and frankly I don’t much care - your business is your business, I'm not gonna interfere. Geralt'd just hand my ass to me if I tried." His wolf-yellow eyes sharpened, that keen hunting gaze made familiar because it was the one Geralt got, too. "I couldn't keep him safe from Dagobert. Couldn't save Vesemir, the one guy Geralt's ever loved as a dad. But hurt him and I promise that by the time Lambert and I are through with you you’ll damn well _wish_ you could die.”

Regis said nothing. After a moment Eskel nodded, and left; mounting Scorpion and taking off at a gallop for Kaer Morhen cold against the mountain far across the valley, leaving Regis stood in the snow. He moved to sit where Eskel had sat, and watched the castle for long after the wolf had left, snow drifting silent from the sky and settling heavy over the old, scorched training grounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Regis is a bitch to write because I've got to make him sound fancy without being pretentious, plus I'm experimenting with my style and trying to work on my descriptive writing. Actually, yay or nay on the descriptions? Because if they're shit please tell me how and why, it's the only way I'll get better as a writer and I thrive on criticism.
> 
> Also, just realised that I may or may not have given Regis a witcher kink. Eh, it's not like Regis will complain.


End file.
